


Enigmas in the Closet

by freckledandspectacled



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Blatant Closet Joke, Canon-Typical Violence, Ed is so Kinky, M/M, Masochism, Masturbation, Missing Scene, One Shot, Psychopaths In Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-18
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-18 11:28:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9383033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freckledandspectacled/pseuds/freckledandspectacled
Summary: Ed was there when Oswald killed Tarquin. This is his take on the event.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is all flux--and-flow's fault I am an innocent angle praise Jesus Hallelujah.

Ed needed to be certain he could clean up Oswald’s mess before anyone else stumbled upon it, which is why he is currently uncomfortably stuffed into a small closet, alongside his crime scene equipment and a gallon of bleach. He hears footsteps. Oh, _finally_. This had better be Oswald, and he had better follow the muddy footprints Ed had so painstakingly…. **  
**

Yes, there he is. Wonderful. Ed won’t be stuck in here much longer now. He loves watching a good scheme come together, and had created a small crack in the wood through which he could watch this entire little performance unfold. He texts Tarquin. The man has a good response time, but Oswald should be able to discover the body before he gets here. Oswald follows the prints, suspicious after discovering Tarquin’s birthday bash in light of his father’s warning.

Oswald heads to the other closet. Good. Pulls out the duffel bag Ed had stuffed Elijah in. Wonderful. He’s unzipping the bag, then reels back in shock upon pulling it open. Right on cue, in comes Tarquin.

Ed can’t fault him; he has perfect timing. Or perhaps the worst timing. Ed supposes it depends on your point of view. Regardless, he still hates the snooty blonde for thinking he could ever even _hope_ to replace him in Oswald’s eyes. No matter. That annoying little fact should be dealt with soon enough.

“Your Honor,” Tarquin says, entering the room. It draws Oswald’s attention to him at last. “Can I help you?”

“Why? Why would you do such a thing?” Oswald hisses, barely able to speak he’s so overcome with emotion. Ed feels his cock twitch. Oh dear. Not now.

“What are you talking about? What is that?” Tarquin says, gesturing towards the body with the hand not currently holding his birthday cake. God, what an idiot. It’s a dead body, obviously. He doesn't even sound disturbed. The sheer level of stupidity alone was enough to convince Edward he truly deserved this. (Not that he didn’t already think that.)

“You are a sick man!” Oswald yells, pointing at him. Ed feels his pants tighten at his tone, at the threat of violence always laced underneath when Oswald gets like this. He hasn’t seen it in ages. Hasn’t watched him kill in so _long_. There were only so many fantasies he could glean from the few acts he had witnessed Oswald commit. This is going to give him so much more material. 

The idea excites him, arouses him to new levels. To think he had orchestrated this whole thing, and now he gets to have one of his favourite treats: watching Oswald become completely unhinged with rage. This was going to be enough to fuel his fantasies for a _year_.

“What are you plotting?” Oswald says, advancing toward him. Ed watches in anticipation as Oswald grabs a golfing trophy from Tarquin’s desk, stalking forward. He always did love Oswald’s clear preference for blunt force trauma over stabbing…. 

“What's the angle? Who are you in on this with?” Oswald screams, almost incoherent with rage. Of course he wanted to know the larger plot, but could he resist killing Tarquin long enough to find out there wasn’t one? Ed knew him well. It was a solid ‘no.’ 

He ghosts a hand over his cock through his trousers, trying to grant himself a little relief. He’s so hard it’s unbelievable. It’s been far too long. Ed brings his fist up to his mouth in anticipation, biting down lightly on his knuckle as he watches. He doesn’t want to come, he still needs to speak with Miss Kean after this and she’d know. He is not going to come.

“I-I have no idea. Look, you're exhausted. Y-You haven't slept in days… you barely...” 

Ed can see Oswald tensing. He knows it’s coming, can see the tremors going through Oswald while Tarquin continues saying what he doesn’t want to hear. Oswald is winding up and grunting before he even finishes, smashing the trophy into his mouth with a grotesque thud.

Ed whimpers at the sight, biting down on his knuckle to stifle his noises. Oh dear. He’s going to cream his pants. Tarquin’s face is bloodied just from the first blow. Oswald is already winding up again as Tarquin sets his cake down instead of running. What a dummy. Ed is incredibly satisfied to see his inferior “replacement” get sacked by Oswald in the most brutal method possible. 

He can’t stand it, he needs to touch himself, otherwise he’s going to come in his pants and that will be even worse. Barbara will _definitely_ know what he was up to when he is unable to hide the telltale stain, he reasons. Ed works his pants open, taking hold of his cock. The very knowledge that he is touching himself, getting off as Oswald bludgeons someone to death in the very same room, has him on the brink of orgasm. This won’t take long.

Oswald’s next blow spins Tarquin around with the force of it. He is so strong for such a small man, and Ed moans into his fist again, biting down harder. He can’t risk being overheard— yet another thrilling element added to this game. If Oswald hears him, the jig is up. He needs to be quiet or everything will come crashing down and he will be, quite literally, caught with his dick out.

Tarquin collapses from the blow, and Oswald advances on him once more, predatory, intent. What Ed wouldn’t give to have that focus on him… he’s so close already….

Oswald straddles Tarquin as he lays on the floor… Ed imagines it’s him, instead. Oswald hovering over him, landing blows across his face as he moans helplessly… all that power and dominant energy focused on him. Him alone. Tears leak from the corners of his eyes as he suppresses more groans, the skin of his knuckle splitting under his teeth. 

Oswald raises the trophy for another blow. Then another, and another, and another. Oswald delivers six… maybe seven heavy blows in quick succession. Ed watches with rapt attention. Every hit sends electric shivers through his body, the sound as they connect making heat flare in his stomach. His fist flies over his cock, and the sound of Oswald’s primal howls sends him over the edge. Ed comes to the sweet music of Oswald snarling in Tarquin’s face. He bites down on his fist so hard he’s certain he has begun bleeding from the effort required to stifle his shout. Not that Oswald would hear him over his own passionate roars, anyways. Ed’s hips jerk as he comes on the interior of the closet, seeing colors even in the darkness of it.

He doesn’t get to enjoy any afterglow. His orgasm is immediately followed by someone knocking on the door. Ed stills. It’s all gone so quiet, apart from the woman’s voice, that he doesn’t even want to risk tucking his cock back in and zipping his pants up.

“Mr. Stemmel? The TV crew is ready. It's time for the interview.... Have you seen the mayor?” Ed watches as Oswald panics, then leaves the trophy on the ground as he hobbles out of the room. Ed figured Oswald wouldn’t attempt a cleanup. That’s why he’s here, after all. Ed can’t help but notice that Oswald’s limp is getting worse, Ed should really—

No. He can’t get soft now. He’ll massage the limp from Oswald’s leg for days after this, but Oswald needs to learn his lesson first. Ed will not be taken for granted... never again. He sighs. Clayface will be here soon to collect the murder weapon and put on their little show. He needs to be ready to receive him; that means taking care of his mess in the closet, straightening himself out, and putting on the persona Clayface expects of him.

Ed tucks his cock back into his pants, zipping up and redoing his belt. He wipes the tears from his eyes, and then opens the door. He steps out of the closet, legs still shaking, to observe the mess he made in the light.

Well, he hadn’t gotten anything on himself. That’s what matters. And damage to his hand was negligible, he decides, licking the blood from his wounds. Now he just needs to clean up all this… _evidence_.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the most violent, obscene, and perverted thing I've written for them thus far... I love it, it's so sick. They're so sick. How 'bout you? Let me know if you wanna see more of this kind of thing or my usual fluff.


End file.
